Kandinsky at Dawn

Kandinsky at Dawn

The sky has come down
to lie on the grass.
A low sun looks on
in wonder, sidelong.

Pale-blue intersecting
ice-kingdoms extend.
Someone has patterned
the lawn with diamonds.

Sapphire worlds flash.
Criss-crossed figures
coincident heiroglyphs
interlink, dazzle.

‘Everything comes too late’
say those who see nothing.
Concealed from them
the crystalline fields.

Luminous geometries
blue-green tartans of frost
snowclouds, tropospheres
carpeting at dawn.

Loomings of paradise
lapidary-work, last night
laid across the countryside
the frosted-over land.

Shackleton

Shackleton

An explorer lost
at the pole, searching
for the world’s axis
ship crushed in grinding ice
sees no morning
till a distant summer
raises the sun
from dark months.

Imagine
that returning light
as mystics decribe
warm rays shining
into separation
from a supernatural face
when the dead dream about
the angel of release.

Auroras flicker
round her head;
there’s a flame
in a frozen spine.
Earth no longer
revolves, silently
blue ghosts cast
fantastic shadows.

Oriental cities rise
up into the sky’s
overturned lifeboat.
A photograph
in the underworld
means everything
to men kept alive
in eternal night.

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